


Lashed

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Episode Related, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternate path for Cypher; sorry, couldn't resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lashed

## Lashed

by Constance

The usual. We've seen them all. 

Thanks for reading!

Spoilers for Cypher, violence, graphic assault by a sicko psycho, Jim in comforter mode, very happy NC-17 ending. 

* * *

He waited impatiently for Jim to call him back, willing the phone to ring, but trying to compose his thoughts so he wouldn't sound like a complete lunatic. Still, he was scared to death, and by God, if he couldn't get Jim to take him seriously; he swore he would call 911, even if the guys at the station ended up teasing him about it later. It was nothing, after all. The heebie jeebies. Too much caffeine. Nothing. 

The door burst inward. 

He froze, for a moment too scared to turn around, to turn his back on the killer he knew was coming for him. He frantically tried to think of a way to escape, but had forfeited most options when he'd done his best to secure the loft. Best way out now was through the front door. So Sandburg rushed Lash, which surprised him, and it almost worked. But Lash caught him by an ankle, pulled him off his feet, sending him sprawling over the TV. Sandburg rolled over, kicking, and as they grappled their way to their feet, Blair shoved Lash off balance, tipping him backward onto the couch. Lash countered again, catching Sandburg by the hair, yanking him right onto the coffee table as he fell himself. Lash kicked him in the head before he could get up, and the blast of pain distracted him as he flailed, trying to keep Lash off until he could pull himself together. 

His yells for help were cut off when Lash's hand clamped hard onto his mouth. Sandburg struck out repeatedly, as they wrestled on the floor, heaving, even trying to bite, to no avail. Lash grabbed Sandburg by the hair again, pulled up, and slammed his head hard on the floor. Sandburg saw a burst of light, and weakened, grabbed for Lash's wrists. Lash responded by flinging himself full length onto Sandburg, repositioned his hand to cover both mouth and nose. Desperately, Sandburg moved both hands to the one suffocating him, trying to pull it away, bucking, digging with his nails, twisting. Lash banged Blair's head on the floor several times with impunity, then, and Blair's world started to go black at the edges. He was mostly unconscious, grip slipping and sluggish, when Lash let go, reached in his pocket, pulled out a small bottle, and forced its contents past his lips. Sandburg didn't swallow it as much as he inhaled it; gasping and choking, and then he was tumbling into a blurred other world. 

* * *

He woke to darkness and pain, a pervasive sense of wet decay, the stink of rotting wood and disintegrating concrete. It surrounded him, invaded him, depressed him. Had Lash brought him to the abandoned warehouse where he used to live? If so, how had he known about that place? He moved his hands, to get up, and found them restrained. Chains? What? He had to get up. He had to move. He had to think. If he could push the muzzy haze off for a moment, string a coherent thought or two together, he could get out of this. Talk his way out, run away, something. But first he had to get up. Then he realized his legs were chained, too. He rolled onto his back, stymied. 

He struggled with the chains again, yanking at them in frustration. When the clinking noise stopped, he heard the footsteps. Closer. Closer. He made an anguished protest and hunched himself away as best he could. 

Lash smiled as he watched. "Where ya goin' Blair?" he chanted mockingly. Sandburg's back hit something wet, cold, and unmoving, but he kept pushing with his legs, trying to will himself through it. It did not work. 

Lash reached down, and as Blair thrashed and protested, hoisted him up with little apparent effort. Upside down, Sandburg lost consciousness even before he was settled onto Lash's shoulder. 

* * *

Lash traced the drumsticks over Sandburg's face as he tried to avoid the touch, terrified as he thought of what the madman could do with them. 

He tapped them against Blair's chin for a moment, then his gaze grew dreamy, speculative. He gently pushed the drumsticks against Blair's lips, spread by the silken gag. "You ever been fucked with a drumstick, Blairy?" He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head as if listening to Blair's reply. 

"I bet you have. I bet you've been fucked by a lot of things. Especially by Jim, haven't you? I bet he's bent you over that table and rammed his dick up your ass so hard you screamed. 'Hands and knees, Blair,' he says, and I'll bet you do. You beg for it, don't you? You love it when he shoves his tongue in your hole. I know how you are." He drew closer and closer to Blair as he spoke, until he was hissing the words, face cold, hard. 

Then he drew a long breath and stepped back, voice calmer, mimicking Sandburg's intonation and cadence. "I know your father wasn't around. I had coffee with that nice lady in the lab, you know. She knows a lot about you, but she doesn't seem to like you much. I think your mom had a lot of men. I'll bet some of them had you, too, didn't they? And I'll bet some of them liked you better. I'll bet they wore you out. I know they did, I can see it in your eyes. 

"Do you give good head, Blairy? Is that the first thing you learned how to do? I'd love to find out, but you'd bite me, wouldn't you? Although as much stuff I've given you, you might not. Maybe if you thought I was Jim. Maybe I can be Jim. Maybe I can fuck you in the ass like he does. You could scream as loud as you wanted, too. Or maybe I'll keep the gag in. I like the sounds you're making now. They'd be the same sounds, wouldn't they? Does he like to cuff you and fuck you?" His voice had grown hard again, his breath had quickened. 

The muffled noises grew louder as Lash's hand worked open Blair's pants, slipped inside. He recoiled from the unwelcome fingers scrabbling through the springy pubic hair, moaned as they groped and wrapped around his penis, then moved lower and fondled his balls. He shimmied in the chair, jamming his hands against the restraints again and again, his fingers only able to barely brush Lash's wrist, as he continued his assault, completely unperturbed. 

"How about this, Mr. Minor in Psychology?" Lash mocked. "Check it out, dude. I'm escalating. Moving up to rape. Pretty cool, huh, man?" 

He could not believe this was happening to him. Did not want to believe it. The hand wiggled lower, as he tried to clamp his legs to prevent it. A fingertip gently touched his rectum and his whole body clenched, and he gave an anguished, muffled bellow of denial as he tried to writhe away from it. He was shouting through the gag, threats, pleas, all to no avail to the frantic man. 

Then he flinched and yelped in pain when the finger forced its way inside. 

"Oh, yeah, man. That's the place, isn't it? Jim's place." His other hand unzipped his own pants, released his eager erection, began to stroke it. "Does Jim's dick look this good?" He asked, rhythmically shoving his finger into Blair in a sick parody, and Blair tensed, wincing each time the fingernail carelessly scraped him. He made the noises no one ever hears themselves make, of fear and pain and desperation. "God," Lash groaned. "This is so hot, dude. I should have thought of this a long time ago." 

Blair closed his eyes as the single finger became two, the jabbing increased. He knew in a moment he would be tumbled from the chair onto the floor and his belly and there wouldn't be any damned thing he could do to stop him. He flinched again, redoubling his struggles to escape, trying not to think about how much it would hurt when those relatively small fingers were replaced by Lash's penis. 

He was sickened by the stench Lash's sweat and musky arousal in such close proximity, suddenly shamed by the thought that when they found his body, Jim would know exactly what had happened to him. Lash's scent would still be buried deep within him. God. 

Fortunately for Blair, however, Lash didn't have the discipline to last long enough to complete his entire plan. 

* * *

Lash panted, momentarily at peace, but the raging insanity too quickly reasserted itself. He looked down at his hands and pants and his face twisted in disgust and loathing. "Look at th-this m-m-mess. You did this. It's y-your f-f-fault. Yours!" He reached over and wiped it on Blair, then painstakingly drew up and fastened Blair's clothes, spewing invectives the entire time, getting redder and redder in the face, louder and louder, finishing in a near scream. "You. Filthy. Bastard. Not on me anymore, though, it's all you. I really am you now. And this is what happens to naughty boys who play with themselves!" He made a fist and slammed it into Blair's crotch. 

His world exploded into a supernova of pain as he screamed into the gag. Every system in his body fused into a frozen, endless frame. He couldn't draw breath to scream again. He felt his heart freeze, even, then begin beating erratically. Wave after wave of the most intense pain he'd ever experienced poured over his body. His hands curled into claws, his body bent in a useless attempt to contain it. White, blank oblivion crooked its finger and he did not resist its call. 

* * *

Jim Ellison took a few steps closer to Lash, using every sense to ensure the man was dead. He noted Blair's scent on him...wait a minute. That wasn't Blair's surface scent on him at all, it was a deeper, more personal odor, mixed with...blood, and some scent which wasn't Blair's, it was from Lash, it was... 

Ellison's vision flashed red and he felt a growl rumble out of his chest, born on a mix of possessive emotions. Unable to contain it, he howled in anguish and fury and hurled himself toward the ruined stairs. 

He didn't allow himself to believe it completely until he stumbled to a halt at Blair's side. Blair appeared to be unconscious, head lolled to the side, eyes closed. Jim took a brief, restrained sniff and gagged from the unmistakable evidence that resulted. "Goddamn it," he swore, tears forming in contrast to the anger in his voice. "God _damn_ it!" Blair moaned then and started shifting restlessly. "Take it easy, buddy," Jim crooned, immediately switching from avenger to healer. "It's gonna be okay, buddy. I'm here." 

He crouched in front of the chair, frowning at the absurd overkill with the chains. It was gonna take a pair of pliers to get him out of the damned thing. He worked at it with little patience, fighting an urge to use his teeth, which might have made him laugh at another time. 

* * *

Blair gained some awareness, sensing as much as seeing a crouched figure releasing the chains around his legs. God. It was Lash, pretending to be Jim, and he was gonna do it to him, right now. He was releasing him so he could carry him somewhere and goddamn fuck him. He kicked out with all the disheveled coordination he could muster, eliciting a grunt and stagger at least from the bastard, which gave him the opening to propel himself out of the chair, collapse to the floor with an awful jangle, landing on hard metal, flat on his face. He began hunching around the floor, trying to get a little room, to get his legs positioned to kick, ignoring for the moment how much it had hurt to move; at all, not to mention the new pains of smacking the floor. Had he cared, he would have noticed he was making those little noises again. 

Strong hands grasped his shoulders, trying to hold him still, and he lunged backwards towards his assailant. They fell together, and Sandburg knew he had lost again as arms and legs immediately wrapped him up tightly. He flashed back, remembered hearing Jim's voice shouting, then gunshots. Jim must be dead. He struggled briefly, as much as the pain, drugs, and manacles allowed, then he thought it again; *Jim is dead. * Lash had him wrapped him in a grip of iron; obviously killing made Lash into a fucking superman. The thought made him sag in sudden surrender. What happened next longer mattered. 

He squeezed his eyes shut, to hold in the tears. He wouldn't look at Lash; would think only of Jim waiting for him on the other side of this hell. 

He ignored the breath of whispered reassurances against the side of his face. The little puffs of air repulsed him and made him shudder. Gentle fingers pulled the gag away from his mouth, touched the bloody sore spots on his lips. He clamped his lips together, willing them not to tremble, and jerked his face away from the fingers. He did not want to think about the reasons Lash would now want his mouth free. 

"Keep your sick fuck hands off me, you bastard," he rasped, voice so hoarse he didn't know if Lash even understood him. "You're not Jim. You'll never be Jim. Not him, not me, not _anybody_ but David the Duckman. You _got_ that?" 

The body holding him froze. Blair felt his breath quicken. He had stung him with that, apparently. Now he had to use it to his advantage. But...for what? He was nearly immobile, with pain and chains, Jim was, Jim was, well. There was no rescue coming anymore, was there? No...Jim, not anymore... 

Lash was finally truly forgotten. Who cared what happened next? Jim was dead. He slumped again, pulled downward by grief and sorrow. Numbed, he felt the hands brush his hair back, gather him up again, pulling him into an embrace, a hand patting his back. He did not care. Lash could do whatever he wanted. Elvis had left the building. He was too far gone even to block out Lash's words, anymore. "It's me, Chief. Really me. Lash is dead, not me, I swear. I'm not letting you go, so forget it. Fight if you want, I'm not letting go. He didn't know I called you Chief, did he Blair? I know you're too drugged up and hurt for things to make any sense, that's okay. We'll just sit here till it does." 

Sandburg drew a great, shuddering breath. Started to listen carefully, still not believing, but almost ready to. "It's gonna be okay, Chief. I hear your heartbeat. It's starting to slow down a little, that's good. Just try to come back to me here. Try to let yourself listen to my voice. You do that and we'll forget the house rules for a week, okay? Whatever it takes." 

Jim was silent for a moment. Rested his head on Sandburg's. Blair took that moment to draw in another great breath, find his voice. " _All_ of 'em?" he finally asked, voice strained through tremendous emotion. 

Jim Ellison froze. Smiled and hugged tighter. He firmly curbed the impulse for a stronger reaction. "Well, the first ten, at least." 

"Okay," Sandburg half laughed, half choked, "now I _know_ it's really you, man." He slowly allowed himself to turn his face toward the light in his friend's eyes. 

* * *

He stared into the darkness; sitting on his bed in a semi lotus, trying to process the events of a few hours ago and calm himself. He was awake and knew full well he would remain so all night, but he had shooed Jim off to bed soon after they'd gotten home, claiming exhaustion, so wandering about the loft wasn't an option. Not that he had any desire to see the loft and the bits of debris still scattered from the fight. He allowed himself a wry smile as he imagined how hard it must have been for Jim to go upstairs without completely tidying things up. Everything back in its place. He gave an involuntary glance towards the front door, grateful that Jim had been able to find someone able to replace and repair it so quickly. He shivered. He wasn't sleepy, but he felt the lassitude, the sluggish dregs of the drugs within him yet. He wondered if he might be in some type of shock. He was vaguely nauseated, knew that Jim had placed the medication the doctor had sent home in the refrigerator in case he did start vomiting, which the doctor had warned was likely. 

The whole surreal aspect of it all was seriously freaking him out. He wished he hadn't come back here; that he'd sought the quiet refuge of his office or maybe the station, even, so he could pace, turn on some music, or something. At least Jim was here, though, and he was safe, a little banged up but mostly, thank God, unharmed, and _that_ was something. 

But it was still hard for him to be here in the loft right now. What a night. He'd gone from a fairly normal life, to one nearly lost through terror and torture by a killer he knew far too much about, back to presumed normal again. Maybe cops didn't freak over such violent twists in their daily routine, about being kidnapped and scared out of their minds and rap- he slammed the door on that train of thought. The whole evening had been horrific, the sexual assault, though traumatic, was not particularly worse than any of the rest. The whole concept of being powerless, at this man's mercy, who could and would toy with him in absolutely any way he desired until he was tired of it, and then snuff him out as casually as crumpling up a soda can and tossing it away was brutal to contemplate. 

He started to heave a heavy sigh but caught himself and forced him to expel the breath more quietly. He didn't want Jim down here. He had to process this, put it behind him, forget it. He sighed again, grateful that Jim had seemed to understand his need for privacy right now. Sighed again. And realized he was slipping into a panic attack. 

He recognized the sensations well enough. Oddly, all he cared about right now was finding a safe place to go to ride it out. If he left the apartment, sought refuge in the stairwell perhaps, Jim would no doubt follow him, and he wanted to be alone. Maybe there was somewhere he could go without leaving the loft... 

He snatched up his backpack as he hurried to the bathroom. It was the best place he could think of to go, and hoped foolishly, that Jim might not notice. He closed and locked the door and crawled into the bathtub without turning on the light. He wrapped his arms around himself and gave in to the attack. He was just beginning to feel lightheaded from the hyperventilating when the soft knock came. 

He squeezed his eyes shut; unable to respond when Jim called his name. He hugged himself tighter and realized how stupid it had been to lock himself into a room with no escape. Now Jim was gonna have to break the door down to get in to check on him and he'd be sitting there in the damned bathtub, a friggin' sitting duck, just like he had been when Lash had kicked the door in. 

He hadn't even thought, until this moment, how ironic it was for him to have sought refuge in the bathroom, or even worse, the bathtub. He wasn't known for clear thinking during these attacks, though; panic attacks by their very nature were not exercises in logic and composed action. The instinct simply dated back to the days as a boy when living with his mother for a while in the Midwest, it had been drilled into him, over and over, that when in danger, you got in the tub. It was the safest place in the house. Certainly he had rode out previous attacks in such a place. But finding himself now, tonight, in a tub which was where he very nearly ending up this night anyway was only adding to his runaway reaction. 

The door eased open and Jim slipped inside, setting the key on the sink. He whispered, "It's just me," and came closer. *I can be Jim. I can be Jim. I can be Jim. * The voice in his head chanted mercilessly. "Don't touch me," he hissed, as he gasped for breath, "don't touch me don't touchmedon'ttouchme..." and his teeth chattered until he clamped his mouth shut. 

"I won't," Jim whispered. "It's gonna be okay. He's gone, Blair. He can't hurt you anymore." 

Blair heard him speak, but could not listen. He scrambled for his backpack instead. His fingers struggled with the zipper until Jim's hands hovered close but did not touch. "You want me to - " Sandburg shook his head violently, unwilling to relinquish any more of himself to someone else's control this day. He finally wrestled the zipper open, reached inside and pulled out an old paper bag. He already felt his body begin to respond as, slightly embarrassed, he clamped the bag over his nose and mouth and began breathing into it. 

As he continued to breathe, his body began to relax, very slowly, to regain control. Jim stayed close, didn't move, didn't speak, didn't try to touch, eyes gleaming in the darkness, wide with fear. 

As the attack ended, his body began to shake in reaction. He finally caught his breath and lowered the bag, looked up at the anxious, hovering silhouette. "Okay. I'm gonna puke - you better move it, man." 

Jim backpedaled so fast Blair was surprised he didn't fall right on his butt. Blair then turned his attention to puking his brains out, part of him observing affectionately that Jim was supporting his shoulders, holding his hair back out of the way, rubbing his back and making soft noises of comfort, another was amused by this which _had_ to be the most unromantic moment of his life, yet one as full of love as any he'd ever experienced. 

He drew back and rested on his haunches, rinsed and spat, then just sagged against the strong chest behind him. His energy spent, he couldn't even sit up without support. He didn't care about anything right now other than accepting the comfort offered him, soaking it up like water offered a sponge left out all day. 

"I can't believe I'm alive," he whispered in a voice that shook. "I really can't. I shouldn't be." 

Jim didn't answer, but held him tighter, buried his face in Blair's neck. "How do I thank you for saving my life? I - it - would have been -s-so bad, man. I was so scared - " his voice stopped, choked. 

Jim rocked him as the tears came and his partner turned and clung to him. 

* * *

It began as Blair's favorite dream. He is on his back, hands are up by his head, where Jim had gently but insistently pressed them. His eyes are closed as he concentrates on enjoying Jim's lazy, intermittent contact with his body. Tongue lightly traces the sweep of a rib. Lips close and tug, teasingly, at the nipple ring, sending a sharp twang of electric pleasure sizzling straight to his cock. Teeth nip at the skin on his neck, just hard enough to make him quiver. It feels so good he can hardly breathe. His hands clench and relax; Jim's fingers lazily trace patterns, tugging on his chest hair and pubic hair, riffling the fuzz on his lower belly. Blair shivers all over, and Jim laughs, low and pleased. He gently eases Blair's thighs apart, licks at him intimately. Sandburg breaks out in a sweat and moans encouragement, but Jim needs none. His hands are large and warm on the tops of Blair's thighs. It's a good thing, for when Jim's tongue touches his most private spot of all he bucks upwards. Jim holds him in place, stops for a moment, taking several slow deep breaths. Gathering in Blair's scent, he realizes, and the thought is amazingly arousing. "Please," Blair groans, not even knowing or caring what he's asking for. Jim's tongue wriggles into Blair and his breath catches in a half-sob, half-shout. God. This is ecstasy beyond imagination. 

His tongue eases out, thrusts back in. Blair moans aloud. Spreads his legs wider, offering himself to Jim completely. His tongue eases out again, Blair is relaxed and open, waiting for the next thrust. 

Pain lanced through Blair as something rigid jabs into his pliant flesh. He jerked in response, crying out. His hands jerk upward, stop, somehow restrained. He lifts his head to look down, and pain stabs him again, deeper. Blair cries out and struggles to move away, but cannot. "Jim, stop! That hurts! What the hell are you doing?" 

He hears a loathsome chuckle that freezes his soul. "Hi, Blairy. I told you - I could be Jim..." He screamed. 

For some endless time, he wavered helplessly between dream and reality. When Blair finally remembered where he really was, his face was wet, his throat was sore, and he was rocking like a babe in Jim's strong arms, shaking so hard he thought he would fly into pieces. Jim was murmuring phrases of comfort. Blair echoed his words in a whisper. *I am home. I am safe. Lash is dead. Jim will keep me safe. I forget Lash as fast as I can. Jim is here, will be here, until Lash fades to nothingness. * 

Eventually he eased himself away from Jim, beginning the next phase of this dance they did these past few days; Blair wandered about the loft, restlessly unable to light and concentrate on any particular thing, and Jim padded along with him, never more than a foot away, solid, quiet, unshakable. 

As he leaned on the balcony, the night air pushing tendrils of his hair against his face, away, and back again, Jim encouraged him, like he did each time he had it, to tell him of the dream. As usual, Blair shook his head. Instead, then, Jim suggested, he talk about the assault. So he tried. But it was so hard to put into words the feelings and thoughts and emotions swirling in his head. Not that Jim cared; he was always patient as the words picked their way out, not necessarily making much sense as they did, never caring what it was Blair said, so long as he was talking. Blair wondered once if he recited the alphabet backwards what Jim would say. 

Eventually, though, the pressure from thoughts, like debris blocking the flow of a stream, built up until critical mass was reached and the words gushed from him in a flood. And he never quite knew what would be at the forefront of his thoughts. "He had a whole bunch of yellow scarves," he blurted once. "He showed me. There must have been a couple dozen of them. That was how many people he was gonna kill, Jim. It - it was weird, man. He was gonna kill me, and he was already movin' on, makin' plans. I was just scarf number whatever. Made me feel like I was nothing. It really -" he shook his head, losing what he could not articulate. 

"Made you feel even more powerless. More depressed, as if you weren't enough already." 

"Yeah, exactly. I don't know, somehow, I knew that I really meant nothing to the man who was gonna kill me. Or something." He shrugged. "That sounds weird." 

He paced. "The worst thing was I think he was beginning to get interested in you. And I couldn't warn you. He was gonna come after you, Jim. Sooner or later. He -" he choked off the words and turned away, tears springing to his eyes. Jim moved up behind him, not touching, but close enough that Sandburg could feel him, his body almost tingling in response. 

"Was he starting to switch, Blair?" Jim whispered. "Was he trying me out on you? That's what he did, didn't he? Was he pretending to be me...when he...God, what a bastard. I hate him. For all of it." 

Sandburg shivered and did not answer, staring out into the night. Ellison slowly wrapped his arms around Blair from behind, drawing him into comforting strength. They spoke no more, but this time it was big Jim Ellison whose body trembled with the pain of hard thoughts. 

Blair had told him much of what had happened to him, finding it far easier than he would have thought. He didn't know quite what to make of this Jim who was not the brusque cop who cut him off mid sentence, sometimes, infuriatingly, with a mere gesture of dismissal. _This_ Jim was a man who could and did sit with him for hours as Blair picked his way through muddled thoughts and emotions, not interrupting, not yawning, not getting that look on his face he got when trying to think about something else when Blair talked. 

This Jim never flinched, never grimaced with distaste, never made a sarcastic crack, just listened, grave, engaged, and focused. After all, Jim had said early on, imagining what Lash had done to him kept him up just as easily as the reality would; so Sandburg had just as well tell. And so, he had. But he never told Jim about the content of his nightmare. That was too personal, he was too afraid they would lose this tenuous companionship created from the wreckage of the ordeal. 

At first Blair always tried to shoo Jim back up to bed as soon as he was calmed. But Jim never went. He groped to explain, telling Sandburg that it was as important for him to sit up with him and process this as it was for Sandburg. That there was something inside him compelling him to be there with his partner. After that, touched beyond words that he could possibly matter so much to someone, Blair quit trying to push him away. 

Eventually Blair's weariness would overwhelm his fear of sleep, and he would look with reluctance towards his room. Jim would tug his arm, inviting him upstairs. By then, Blair was always too tired to argue, too tired to care about what it meant. What would have demanded introspection and explanation in the light of day made perfect sense when one was dead on their feet at 4 am. He always told himself he was going along for Jim's sake; that it was the only way to assure he would rest instead of playing sentry the rest of the night. He always padded upstairs with his friend and curled unhesitatingly into the crook of his arm, the warmth of his body, always sleeping soundly, dreamlessly. 

He did note that Jim slept just as securely, apparently. 

* * *

The patter of rain on the skylight windows woke Jim. He listened to the rain, to Blair's heartbeat, well content, very drowsy. He inhaled deeply, slowly, luxuriating in the thick, heady cloud of pheromones exuded by Sandburg as he slept. He referred to it privately as 'that early morning Blair-air' even as he knew he would never mention its existence to the incorrigible researcher. He certainly never intended to tell him how much he loved and was aroused by it. He stretched out a bit and smiled, somewhat crowded for space as usual. Sandburg had taken over Jim's bed as thoroughly as the rest of the loft; using more room than should have been possible, completely uninhibited, sprawling all over Jim's chest, a leg between his like it belonged there - not to mention the wild explosion of hair. Every day Jim woke up with Blair hair in his mouth. Every. Day. 

Each morning he secretly traced Blair's movements since he last washed it through taste and scent. He knew what Blair had eaten, how long ago, and whom he had been with. Where he had been. Whether he had seen Simon. He was pretty sure he could even pick up on Blair's moods; at least whether he had been feeling stressed or frightened. 

He suppressed the usual sigh even as he catalogued the tastes, and reluctantly removed it from his mouth before Sandburg could catch him at it, and idly let his attention wander. 

He noticed a slight amount of pressure in a very dangerous place, and froze, wondering how he had missed it till now. He took a careful breath. Yep. God almighty, the kid's hand was on his dick. He suppressed a moan, damned the urge to undulate upward into it, just a bit. A tiny bit. He held his breath in embarrassment as he felt himself go from the usual optimistic semi-prepared for a little morning action state, to just point me, sir, I'm ready to shoot, in mere seconds. Oh, God, it felt good. It was too good to be true. _What if..._ he cut himself off. He had to move, to get turned, get himself out from under Sandburg and down to the bathroom, on his knees on the little floor mat so he could follow up on this fantasy he'd been having more and more about his roommate with the ass he couldn't keep his eyes away from... 

The slight motion Ellison made when he began to shift away from the hand made Blair stretch out some, reposition himself. He flexed his hand, and Jim started and bit back swear words. Said hand was now wrapped securely around Jim's erection, and the traitorous slut was beginning to throb with enthusiastic approval. Unfortunately, though, something in all this brought Blair out of sleep enough to make him lift his head, blink a couple times, then his eyes flew wide and his face bloomed red as he pulled his hand and body away from Jim's like he was on fire. 

There was but a moment for thought, decision, action. A thousand voices shouted for him to let Blair go, not to be a fool, he would destroy their relationship by giving into his own desires and needs, but one quiet whisper sliced through it all by pointing out that he simply could not bear the look of shame and apology in his partner's eyes. Would not. 

"Blair, don't," whispered Jim, and as Sandburg hesitated for approximately one hundred and twenty years compressed in a split second or three, he quite deliberately closed his eyes, laid his head back on the pillow and pulled the sheet off himself. 

There was a long pause, a whispered, "Jesus, Jim," that was half wonder, half shaking with need, and then his breath caught when the fingers gently, hesitantly, came back to where they'd been, and his eyes opened again, reaching for Blair's. 

The gentle hesitance faded quickly as Blair gained confidence, watching Jim's unexpectedly expressive face as he went about his work, dipping his head often to kiss Jim's body wherever he happened to be at the time. He kept up a steady stream of encouragement and compliments; noting with pleasure how it increased Jim's excitement when he did. The big chest rose and fell, breath chuffing in and out in no particular organized pattern. 

It wouldn't take much longer; he quickly dropped down and sucked in as much of the engorged penis as he could when he knew Jim was getting close. Jim moaned aloud and rotated his hips upward as Blair firmly held him down. As he came, he reached down and gently cupped Blair's face, felt his jaws and throat work as he swallowed. 

"God, Blair," Jim said, panting to catch his breath. Blair laid his head on Jim's stomach; riding it as it pitched up and down, suddenly shy. He knew what was coming. His turn. He'd been waiting for this so long; now that the moment was here, he worried, comparing his body to Jim's; finding fault with his all down the line. Jim stroked his hair gently, not saying a word, soothing him like he was reading his mind. Eventually, he grasped Blair by the shoulders, gently rolling him onto his back. 

He did not speak, but touched Blair's face, bent to kiss him. A long time later, when he finished, he rose up, smiled, and used his thumbs to wipe away the moisture trickling slowly from Blair's eyes. 

Then the smiling eyes sobered, and he bent again, gently kissed the corners of Blair's mouth where the gag had cut it. Then he kissed the bruised cheekbone. The little cut near his eyebrow. His fingers traced his jawbone; seeking, finding the bruises. More kisses. 

Then he pulled away, grasped the hem of Blair's t-shirt, and drew it and all the other distracting clothing away from his body. Blair held his breath, as his new lover sat back on his heels and did nothing but look at him, reaching out with a finger to touch, now and then. It was the sexiest thing anyone had ever done to him, he decided. 

Then Jim settled in close and examined his body as he'd done to his face, seeking out and soothing all the injuries on Blair, and it took a long time, but Jim patiently, eventually, found them all. The only time he spoke was when he rubbed a finger down Blair's spine as he lay on his stomach, asking how badly he still hurt inside. Blair assured him the minor amount of damage was all but healed. Jim had narrowed his eyes; to be sure he wasn't minimizing it, then resumed his tour. 

By the time he was finished, Blair was hot, over ready, and impatient, nearly to the point of reaching down to finish things himself. Jim took on the job himself though, casually swooping down and swallowing Blair to the root like he did it every day. He caressed Blair's penis with his tongue, wrapping around it, caressing it, bathing it. He rolled over onto his back, keeping Blair in place in his mouth. Jim sucked and released, sucked and released, as he held Blair's hips, pulling them in, releasing them, echoing the rhythm, encouraging him to thrust into his mouth. 

Blair let Jim control the pace; it was incredibly erotic, and he felt his body respond to it eagerly, spiraling upwards, outward, releasing control. 

He slid in and out of silky, wet warmth, squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered, slowing himself down through an enormous force of will; savoring, holding himself up by shaking arms, moaning aloud broken phrases, though he didn't know what. Jim's hands squeezed his butt, slid down his thighs, up his back. Blair arched and groaned, "Oh, God, Jim." 

Jim responded with a throaty "Mmmmm," and Blair felt his meager control slip away completely. He could no longer stave off the orgasm that was gathering, building, finally roaring through him, body and soul. 

Reality was roughly one thousand times better than fantasy, they agreed, a long, long time later. 

And every day, bit by bit, Lash receded farther and farther away. 

* * *

End Lashed by Constance: constancecomm@aol.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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